


Cicatrices

by khasael



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hp_kinkfest, M/M, Oral Sex, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd think Harry would have realised by now that scars can be fascinating. But it's Draco's scar that causes his epiphany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cicatrices

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 round of LJ's hp_kinkfest.

Malfoy's pale and broken and still, and seeing him lie there shouldn't make Harry feel this way, but it does, and absolutely nothing seems to change that.

"When will he be up to talking?" Harry asks quietly, and it's the house-elf who answers him, startling him badly. The Healer hovering at Malfoy's bedside doesn't even pay him any attention.

"Master Draco will be talking whenever he feels like it," the elf squeaks, a glare not unlike the one Malfoy used to give him firmly on its face. Harry gets the very clear feeling Malfoy has made his dislike of his former schoolmate well-known within this house. He is glared at a moment longer, and then the Healer packs up his wand and his bag and exits, the elf trailing after him and protesting about something or other. Harry pauses for a moment, looking at the sleeping figure on the bed, and glances back at the door. He should be leaving as well.

Only he can't. Something in him that argues against every bit of logic he can throw at it makes him instead step towards the bed, raised high off the ground and piled higher with plush cushions and blankets. He doesn't stop until he's at Malfoy's side, standing directly over him. He looks down and sees the Healer's disturbed the crisp, white sheet, pulling it down on one side so Malfoy's left shoulder and part of his chest are exposed.

He hesitates again, knowing he should _absolutely_ be gone now. The elf will be back any second, likely screeching at seeing Harry so close to its master, and the whole reason Harry's here—to get a statement from Malfoy—is moot with the other man unconscious. But again, he acts against whatever he's busy telling himself and takes the edge of the sheet between thumb and forefinger, pulling it carefully upwards to cover the pale flesh beneath.

His fingers are clumsy and brush against Malfoy's skin, trailing briefly over the scar tissue that's there, the very thing that seems to be keeping him from turning and leaving as he should. Harry looks quickly up at Malfoy's face to find pale grey eyes locked on him. "What the fuck are you doing, Potter?"

If it's meant to be accusing or hostile, it doesn't quite make it. Malfoy's voice is a croak, sounding as if his throat's not seen liquid in days. Harry jumps back guiltily and finds he has no adequate answer. "Your Healer left you uncovered," he finally stammers. "I just thought you'd want to be warm while you rested. I was on my way out. I can see you're not up for conversation."

He turns and flees, the pad of his thumb tingling where it has come into contact with the scar tissue crossing Malfoy's shoulders. Another croak, much louder this time, stops him halfway through the door. "Potter, wait."

Malfoy's voice still sounds wretched, and half the reason Harry stops is because he knows it has to have been painful to produce that kind of volume. Slowly, he turns around. "What is it, Malfoy?"

"Come here. I'm not going to shout at you like this."

It's a fair enough point, and Harry _is_ here on official business. He'd come with the aim of getting in and out as quickly as possible, and that still seems like a reasonable way to go. He does briefly wonder if Malfoy wants him so close so he can cast a quick hex for that unwarranted touch, but isn't worried. In his current state, Malfoy likely couldn't harm so much as a fruit fly.

He stands just as close as he was a moment ago, trying hard not to notice that the sheet still isn't up as high as it should be. "What is it?"

"You're here for my statement?"

Relief fills Harry. Official business. Oh, thank Merlin. "Yes." He can almost forget that he's been caught doing something wholly unprofessional.

"I'll make it easy for you," Malfoy says with a wince. "I didn't see anything."

It doesn't feel like the whole truth, a behaviour Harry's quite familiar with, but it might be. How many times has he questioned a witness or interrogated a suspect who's been lying? He has trouble discerning if Malfoy's keeping mum because it's Harry doing the interrogating, or if there is some unknown reason. His eyes go to the bedside table on the other side of the bed, more than an arm's reach for Malfoy. There's a pitcher of water and a glass there, though Harry doubts Malfoy's seen them. With a quick flick of his wand, he fills the glass and levitates it over until Malfoy takes it, looking absolutely startled.

Malfoy sits up gingerly, with a little grunt, and drinks, slowly at first, and then greedily. Harry looks away when a bit of the water runs down Malfoy's chin and lands on his chest, slipping down along one of the recessed scars. Something inside of him twists at the sight, and he thinks of shattered porcelain, broken tiles, and puddles of cold water into which blood blooms. That's where these scars originated. From him. Things suddenly feel hazy.

"Thank you for your time, then," Harry says, hearing the way his voice sounds, constricted and too high. "I'll show myself out."

He doesn't even fully turn around before long, cool fingers still damp with condensation from the drinking glass close around his wrist. "Not yet, you won't," Malfoy says, his voice still not right, but no longer sounding so tortured. "I've been awake a while, Potter. I saw you staring. What's the matter? Taking the first chance to admire your work up close?"

"No, I—" Harry starts, and it's as far as he gets, because he really doesn't know _what_ he's been doing. It doesn't matter anyway. He stands there, paralysed, as Malfoy lays the glass aside and pushes the sheet down around his middle. "Malfoy..."

"Yes, Potter? Take a good look if you want. These are here because of you." His voice is harsh, and Harry can't meet his eyes. But then the grip on his wrist lets go. "Not that I blame you."

Harry finally looks away from Malfoy's chest, tearing his eyes away from the silvery lines etched from abdomen to shoulder in jagged, irregular patterns. "What?"

"You heard me," Malfoy says quietly, as if saying this pains him more than talking did before drinking something. "I don't blame you. I gave you every reason to retaliate, and you always were one for acting without thinking through the consequences. In that one way, I suppose, we're alike."

"I didn't mean to—" Harry starts to say, surprised that Malfoy's even given thought to the idea that they have anything in common.

"It doesn't matter to me," Malfoy says firmly. "I'm still alive and free, thanks to you. Anything you did gets negated by those simple facts. Now, I'm sorry I don't have a statement to give you, but I simply didn't see who attacked me."

Harry struggles for something else to say, but finds nothing. The desire to run his hands across Malfoy's chest is striking. His thumb still tingles minutely, and he cannot tell if the sensation is real or all in his mind. He bids Malfoy goodbye when dismissed, goes back to the office to register Malfoy's non-statement, and climbs into bed almost immediately upon arriving home.

His dreams are full of scars, silvery-white lines cutting across everything, finally wrapping around him and strangling him in a slowly constricting snare of desire and heightened sensation.

 

~0~

  
Though Harry hasn't seen him personally since the night of the attack, Malfoy's been in his thoughts. None of it makes any sense, but so little of Harry's life _has_ , and he chalks it up to the natural order of things. On the side of the unnatural, however, is the brief, cordial thank-you note hand-delivered by house-elf five days after Malfoy's attacker is caught.

The note is scarcely a paragraph, but there's something about it that says Malfoy's been thinking of him, too. Perhaps it's Harry's moment of kindness in pouring him some water that's sat oddly in Malfoy's mind, or the awkward touch as Harry tried to raise the sheet to cover him, or something else Harry did but cannot remember. Or maybe it simply is thanks for catching Malfoy's attacker and Harry is reading too much into the scrawled note and the deep bow the house-elf gives him as he manages something akin to a smile.

Two days after the unanswered thank-you note, it's Malfoy himself waiting outside the DMLE, looking considerably healthier than the last time Harry laid eyes on him. The sight is so unexpected Harry stops and stares. Not helping is the fact that Malfoy's collar is undone, revealing just a bit of scar tissue visible above the white shirt. "A moment, Potter?" Malfoy calls easily, leaning against the stone wall outside the door.

"Yeah, sure," Harry says, wondering what on earth he's done to warrant a visit, especially at nearly ten in the evening. "What's up?"

Malfoy gestures Harry to follow him, and Harry goes, unsure why it seems like a good idea. They end up in a little alcove that's hidden from plain view and hardly ever used. A Christmas tree stood here last month, and the smell of dried pine still lingers. "My house-elf assures me he did as told, but I'm here to check. Did you receive my note?"

Oh. "Yeah, I did. You didn't have to say thank you, Malfoy. I was just doing my job."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I've heard you're good at it. Highest arrest rate in years, isn't it? Apparently even without the victim's statement." Harry shrugs, wondering where this is going and why he cannot seem to stop staring at the V of Malfoy's undone collar. Apparently, he's not subtle about it. "I was going to ask why you never acknowledged my letter, but I'll put that on pause for just a moment. A better question might be, why on earth do you keep staring? Didn't you do enough of that at my bedside?"

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I have no idea why..." This is mortifying. He braces himself for an onslaught of mocking, or perhaps a threat or even a hex. It wouldn't be uncalled for.

Instead, Malfoy makes an interested little humming noise. "Well, we're alone. Look your fill, Potter. Least I can do for the Auror who captured my attacker, I suppose."

Harry opens his eyes to see Malfoy undoing yet another button and pulling his collar apart. "I don't know what you're..." but his voice trails off as he looks at those scars, some thick and some thin. His pulse races and he makes an effort to keep his breathing at a normal rate.

"What exactly is your fascination with them?" Malfoy asks quietly, voice curious. "Do they make you feel guilty? Do they disgust you?"

"No," Harry manages, taking long, deep breaths. What the fuck _do_ those pale marks do to him?

Malfoy looks at him, _really_ looks at him, for a long moment. "Touch one."

"What?" Harry squeaks, not even caring in his shock that he sounds like a pre-pubescent teenager. "I'm not going to—"

But it doesn't matter what he protests, because Malfoy has hold of his wrist. "You want to, don't you?" Malfoy's voice is low, seductive, and it's the weirdest thing in the world, because it's perfect. Malfoy guides Harry's hand toward the exposed skin and lets go, leaving Harry's hand centimetres from contact. "Do it. I want you to."

His hand acts before his brain can give a strong enough command not to. He runs his fingertips gently over the thinnest scar, delicate flesh that nearly glows under the rough pads of his fingers. Beneath his touch, Malfoy shudders. "Malfoy," Harry breathes, wondering if this is yet another dream, because no logic in the real world explains what he's feeling, what he's _doing_.

"It's okay, Potter," Malfoy whispers. "Just trust me." He takes hold of Harry's hand, gently this time, and raises it to his mouth. Harry can feel Malfoy's hot breath on his palm before one of his fingers is taken into Malfoy's mouth. He forgets to breathe for a second, concentrating on the feel of Malfoy's tongue swirling around his index finger and a brief moment of suction before it slips past Malfoy's lips and is tugged down again to trace another of the lines on Malfoy's chest.

Harry's world colours deeply, every hue oversaturated. He feels every damned nerve ending in his body for a moment before the sensory overload begins to mellow into something sustainable. He's almost at the point where he can function again when Malfoy lets out a small sigh and Harry feels something that is most definitely lust fill him.

"Fuck, Potter, this turns you on, doesn't it? You like it." Malfoy's voice is low and throaty, just a rough whisper in a deserted corridor, and there is need there, plain as the pointy nose on his face. Harry has no idea what to think. He only knows this is what he wants.

"So what if I do?" It's half challenge, half actual question.

"Nothing," Malfoy says, squirming as if he's also trying to wrestle with desire that makes no sense. "By all means, continue."

Harry undoes another button on Malfoy's robes and takes in the sight greedily. Some of the scars are faint and thin, others darker and hinting at how serious the original injury was, something Harry had thought was fixed without a trace until just recently. He bites his lip, trying to be content with looking, but Malfoy catches his eye. The words he does not utter shine through his expression, and Harry is sure it is permission to go on.

Slowly, waiting for a hex or a knee to the groin or even Rita Skeeter or one of her little photographers waiting to pop out of nowhere and begin photographing this little moment, Harry dips his head and hovers his face just above the highest scar, the one that trails just a centimetre or two up Malfoy's throat. He stays there, still, wondering what in Merlin's name has come over him, when Malfoy makes an impatient noise and moves forwards, connecting the soft flesh of his throat with Harry's mouth.

Blood immediately rushes to Harry's cock. He's been turned on before, yes, fooled around with a few witches and wizards in the years since ending things with Ginny, but never has he experienced something this intense from so little physical stimulus. He flicks his tongue lightly over the skin pressed against his lips, feeling the place where the delicate scar tissue cuts through the regular flesh, and Malfoy moans softly in his ear, one hand coming up to clutch at Harry's back.

Taking that as his cue, Harry licks his way across Malfoy's chest, following the crisscrossing patterns by touch alone. Malfoy's other hand works its way into Harry's hair, pulling so tightly it's almost painful, but Harry won't stop—can't stop—now. He kisses his way up and down Malfoy's throat and chest, and when he finds himself nearly on his knees, mouth at Malfoy's navel, Harry figures in for a Knut, in for a Galleon, and undoes the last of Malfoy's buttons, pressing him against the wall.

Malfoy goes willingly enough, and even sighs Harry's name as he lets his head fall back against the stone. Harry watches him squirm as he licks a particularly thick scar that seems to continue down to Malfoy's hip, before undoing the button and zip of Malfoy's trousers, pulling them and the silk boxers underneath down to mid-thigh. The scar does indeed go lower, trailing over hipbone and thigh, another crossing straight across the thatch of blond hair over Malfoy's erect cock. Casting a quick privacy charm behind them, just in case, Harry drops from his crouch onto his knees and kisses these new marks lightly, blowing a hot breath on them right after. Malfoy's hips buck and now both hands tangle themselves in Harry's hair. "Fuck, Potter, I had no idea," he gasps, looking as if he's still trying to make sense of what's happening.

Harry's far beyond caring at this point, focused only on what Malfoy's scars feel like under his tongue, what they taste like, and how fucking _charged_ he feels doing these things. His own cock is rock-hard under his robes and he thinks he might even be able to come without it being touched if Malfoy lets him keep doing this. "Makes two of us," he says dizzily, gripping Malfoy's hips tightly and nudging Malfoy's cock aside with his nose to nip at another, fainter scar on the other hip.

Malfoy's moaning steadily now, and Harry has trouble thinking. He takes Malfoy's cock into his mouth and pulls back slowly, taking in the taste of salt and musk. The hands in his hair tighten and Harry hears Malfoy whimper and let out a choked "oh, fuck."

It doesn't take long to make Malfoy come—less than a minute in fact—and after going slack for a short moment, he hauls Harry up by the armpit, crashing their mouths together. There is no protest; Harry's world is nerve endings on fire and blood pounding through his temples and in his cock. Malfoy reaches through Harry's robes and palms the erection there, stroking five-six-seven times until Harry is coming hard, still in his underpants.

For a brief second, he worries he might black out, but then he's leaning against Malfoy, against the wall, and Malfoy's supporting much of his weight. "Well, fuck me," Malfoy croaks, and Harry lets out a weak laugh.

"Can't," he manages. "But give me a few moments, and I might."

Malfoy laughs quietly underneath him. "Never thought I'd say it, but I might let you try. I have no idea why you seem so turned on by the scars you put on my body, Potter, but that was surreal. I wonder, was it a one-time phenomenon? Over now that you've looked and touched?"

Harry dips his head and kisses the scar on Malfoy's shoulder, testing the feeling. His lips tingle and his cock twitches minutely. "Whatever it was, it's not gone," he says, now just wanting to run his hands over the scar tissue he's responsible for.

"You're a pervert, Potter," Malfoy says, pushing Harry away, not unkindly. "But a pervert I'd like to get to know better. I have lots of scars, you know. And most of them are hypersensitive."

Harry thinks of Malfoy's moans, the hands tangled in his hair as he licked and kissed and nipped the healed flesh, and smiles. "Why tell me that?"

"Don't be an idiot," Malfoy tells him, now zipping his trousers and setting himself right. "When you figure it out," he says, casting a non-verbal cleaning charm on both of them, "come and find me again. You know where I live. I promise, no attitude from the house-elves this time."

And with that, he's gone, and it's all Harry can do not to Apparate after him.


End file.
